Iron-Tooth

A Sword & Sorcery Flash Fiction Tale

The storm clawed at the mountain peaks like a beast tearing at a fresh kill. Vargos trudged through the dark pines, his fur-lined cloak heavy with hoarfrost. A mercenary with a ruthless reputation, the people had taken to calling him Iron-Tooth, a moniker he loathed with a simmering fury. A heavy burlap sack hung from his belt, weeping crimson from its bottom as it slapped rhythmically against his thigh. It held a bounty from the high caves — the head of the creature he’d spent three days hunting. The reward offered from the mountain villagers below was measly, but it would suffice.

He stumbled through the blizzard until a cabin appeared ahead, nestled among the evergreens, its timbers so dark they seemed carved from shadow. Firelight bled through the windows.

Vargos hammered his fist against the heavy oak door. After a few heartbeats, it cracked open to reveal a woman’s face. Hard life had left its mark on her features, but a fierce beauty remained. Her eyes flicked from his face to the blood dripping from the sack at his hip.

“What brings you to my door this night, stranger?” she said, her voice barely cutting through the wind.

“Survival,” Vargos grunted, his teeth rattling. “The storm’s worsening. I’m looking for a hearth, not trouble. I can pay in coin.”

She studied him through the narrow gap, then smiled. “Coin,” she murmured. “Funny how men worship gold and silver, but coin won’t keep the frost from your bones on a night like this.” Her grin widened. “Come inside, stranger.”

The heavy door swung open, and heat wrapped around him like a lover’s embrace. Inside, dried herbs and mushrooms hung from a rack; pelts of wolf, bear, and a mountain cat lined one wall. In the far corner, a night-fairy no larger than a sparrow circled a flickering lantern, its purple wings shedding faint green motes that died before touching the floor.

The hearth crackled, but the light stayed low; guttering tallow candles threw shifting shadows across the walls. The woman moved to the hearth, ladled a thick stew into a wooden bowl, and offered it to him.

They ate in silence for a time, the wind howling like a banshee. Vargos savored the rich broth, the heat spreading through his frozen marrow. He gestured to a pair of men’s boots near the fire. “Where is your husband?”

“He’s where men like him always end up.”

Seeing she would offer nothing more, Vargos let his gaze move to the collection of snares, traps, and game hooks in one corner. “A hunter, then.”

She took a slow sip of stew. “Yes. He hunts the high ridges.” She took a bite, swallowed, and said, “A cruel man. Thinks he owns the mountain… thinks he owns the creatures of the forest… thinks he owns me. He isn’t worth the salt.”

Vargos’s brow furrowed. “His salt.”

She froze and slowly turned her head. Her eyes locked onto his with piercing focus. “What did you say?” she whispered.

“His salt,” he repeated. “You said he isn’t worth the salt. The phrase is: worth his salt.”

A chuckle escaped her.

Vargos lifted his spoon for another bite, then froze. A pale, severed finger floated among the root vegetables.

He looked up. Their eyes met. Her smile had turned feral, lips stretched wide, teeth gleaming in the firelight.

“Are you enjoying the stew?”

A hot fury burned in his chest. His axe took her head in one stroke. It bounced across the floorboards and rolled into the shadows.

He looked back down at the stew. Cannibalism was no sin to him; he had eaten man-flesh before when survival demanded it. No, the bitch had tried to trick him. Tried to deceive him.

No one makes a fool of Vargos Iron-Tooth, he thought, grimacing at the moniker.

He lifted the woman’s limp body onto the table, then glanced from the bubbling pot to the skinning knife on the shelf. In the dead of winter, a man couldn’t afford to waste good meat. He reached for the knife.

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